


we have not touched the stars

by ohmcgee



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Green Lantern (Comics)
Genre: Future Fic, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Older Characters, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 14:01:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14750234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmcgee/pseuds/ohmcgee
Summary: “Oh fuck off, Spooky,” Hal laughs, releasing puffs of greyish smoke with each chuckle. “We’re not that fucking old.”





	we have not touched the stars

Bruce steps out the back door, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets and closing his eyes, breathing the freezing January air into his lungs. Downstairs, Dick and Damian are entertaining his guests. Bruce would feel guilty about it, but he figures if the people downstairs weren’t aware of his nature by now, they never would be. 

He’d made up some excuse about spilling wine on his clothes and needing to go upstairs to change, nonsense that Clark and Diana had of course seen right through, but were kind enough to pretend they hadn't. Maybe they knew he just needed a moment. Away from the years -- the  _ lifetime --  _ of history between them all. A break from the reminder of what he used to be; of what he was no longer.

It had been at Alfred’s insistence, of course, that he had begun throwing these little parties. Each year he would send the League members he was still in contact with an invitation and each year the RSVPs became fewer and fewer. This year Clark, Diana, Hal, and Dinah had been the only ones who made it. They never spoke of the ones who weren’t there.

“You OD on nostalgia too?”

Bruce opens his eyes to see Hal Jordan perched on the corner of the railing, bottom half of his face illuminated by the glow of the cigarette hanging from his lips.

“You are aware that smoking at your age is even more likely to  --”

“Oh fuck off, Spooky,” Hal laughs, releasing puffs of greyish smoke with each chuckle. “We’re not that fucking old.”

Generally, no. Fifty-five wasn’t that old. But in superhero years, they had lived lifetimes. Their bodies, though still fit and in good shape physically, superficially, bore the consequences of fighting crime since their twenties. There was scar tissue, bones that hadn’t grown back properly, aches and pains that made the most mundane of tasks as painful as taking on a group of metas. Bruce’s knees creaked when he walked up and down the stairs. His right elbow locked up and throbbed with pain when it rained and the doctors were stumped with regard to his erratic kidney problems, unaware that he’d been able to avoid most of the shots villains and street thugs had taken to them -- most, but not all.

“Mm,” Bruce says. “Is that how you feel? Not that old?”

The motion sensor on the side of the house finally decides to work about that time, illuminating Hal’s profile in a soft glow. It reminds Bruce of the first time they met, the strange, green glow that emanated from him, too bright, too cocky, too everything.

“Hell no,” Hal laughs, tapping his ashes off the balcony then raising his free hand to scrub at the patchy stubble covering his cheeks and jaw, a generous amount of grey mixed in with dark brown. There’s a long, silver scar that runs down his throat, continuing below the neckline of his white shirt that brings back memories too vivid for Bruce’s liking. His hand cupped around Hal’s neck as he fumbled for the bandages in his belt with his free hand, shouting at Hal over the sound of fighting.  _ Don’t you dare quit on me, Jordan. We need you.  _ “Not that you would know anything about it, though. You look the same as you did twenty years ago. You know, I saw something on the news the other day about rich assholes injecting the blood of teenagers into their skin to make themselves look younger. That your secret, isn't it? Oh my god, that's what all the Robins were for, wasn't it?”

Bruce snorts. Hal’s running his mouth, standing out in the freezing cold and smoking. He doesn't have to be the world’s greatest detective to figure out that their little reminiscing party had done a number on him too. “You’re still an idiot.”

Hal just grins and blows a cloud of smoke in his face. “Some things never change.”

Bruce reaches over and plucks the cigarette from Hal’s lips, placing it between his own and taking a drag.

“Yes, well,” he says as he hands it back to Hal. “Maybe they should.”

  
  
  



End file.
